Memoirs of a Tragedy in Nineteenth Century Paris
by AmedeCuivre
Summary: I was a foolish young girl who dreamed of an angel while lying in the arms of her beloved. My world was a fairytale, and nothing could convince me otherwise. But Truth is never a kind master, and that night was to be my punishment. No shipping.
1. Chapter 1

This is a story about the end of _The Phantom of the Opera_, and what happens after. I am writing from Christine's point of view for a challenge- I find it much easier to get into Erik or Raoul's heads, but since Christine really is the character that bridges the worlds of these two men, she should be the one to narrate, for at least this story. I am basing the story off the movie version, rather than the books or the stage play, for the simple reason that I much prefer the movie (I _have_ read the Leroux and Kay novels, and seen the stage performance twice, but I really just prefer the movie).

DISCLAIMER: I don't have any rights to any of _The_ _Phantom of the Opera_ enterprises in any way/shape/form. I also don't have any rights to the Celeste Mogador novel from which I got the title for this story.

* * *

You would like me to tell you about the events surrounding the Great Fire that destroyed the Opera Populaire in 1871? No, of course I remember what happened, I simply do not understand why you would come to me- a retired diva- when you have the testimonies of hundreds of audience members, and stagehands at your disposal.

I see. It is not the fire that you want to know about. You are cleverer than the rest, to realize what an unhappy role I played in the events of that night. I was no mere bystander, unfortunately, and my disappearance was more relevant than many would guess.

You want to know what happened with Erik-

Who is Erik? Erik is the man you call a monster. He made himself famous as the opera ghost, the Phantom, but to me he will always be Erik. And so it will be for you as well.

You want sensational details that will catch the eye of your reader and, in due time, I suppose I could oblige with stories that you will never believe. I daresay I can hardly believe them myself. But such is the way of the world, I have learned, that the most outrageous adventures are just as real as the mundane lives we would like to imagine we live.

But enough of my prattle- you did not come for my opinions, you came for my memories. And memory is what I shall give you…


	2. Chapter 2

As Raoul so bluntly put it, the trap had been set. I just couldn't shake the feeling that I, not Erik, was to be the prey.

And truthfully, no matter how the events of that evening had played out, I would have suffered. From the first night Erik brought me to his cavernous home I knew in the depths of my heart that this would have to come to a violent end. Erik was far too violent and possessive and Raoul was far too spoiled and doting for either of them to easily give something he loved.

If I had been honest with myself, I would not have wanted either of them to do so. I loved both men in their own way; Raoul was the embodiment of everything good and kind in the world, and Erik needed me in such a desperate way that I could never in good conscience have abandoned him. Each man filled a distinct part of my soul, and to lose one would cause irreparable damage to my heart.

I was a fool, a foolish young girl who dreamt of an angel while lying in the arms of her beloved. My world was a fairytale, and no amount of grime or conspiracy or turmoil could convince me otherwise. Even once my angel had lost his wings the dreams still endured, and I was naïve enough to believe that they would never need to end. But truth is not a kind master, and it has no sympathy for foolishness.

So tonight was to be my punishment, meted out by Fate to teach me that young lives do not always have happy endings, and that I should never expect such. It was a bitter medicine to swallow, but what choice did I have? Plots set in motion by other people forced me along a path I did not want to travel, towards a destination that I feared to reach. I was truly a prisoner in my own life, and the two men I loved most were fighting over who could free me.

I did not sleep much the night before, and I spent the long hours of conscious silence in prayer and reflection while lighting candles for my father. The quiet gave me time to accept the futility of fighting my destiny. Should Raoul's plan succeed- and I was not so certain it would- I would be free to live the remainder of my days with the love of my life without fear or darkness. Should Raoul's plan fail? I had no way of knowing what would happen.

I was not clever enough to discern any course of action other than the ones that had been laid out for me, and therefore all I could do was what I was instructed to do. I strongly suspected that Erik had plans in motion to thwart Raoul's scheme, but since all I had were suspicions, I kept them to myself. Nothing was certain anymore, least of all my future, and the less that I tried to interfere with my own life, the more I could blame everything on Fate.

It was with these thoughts that I stepped onto the stage of _Don Juan Triumphant_. I was to play Aminta, a girl who fell into a trap set by two more powerful men for their own interests. I could hardly suppress a smile as I thought of the irony of this. I was supposed to be flighty and unobservant, in order to make Don Juan's deception that much easier. In reality, I was panicked and could hardly stop shaking enough to sing properly.

I hadn't been told many details of Raoul's plan; all I knew was that I had to be alluring enough onstage to distract the Phantom while the police sealed off Box Five. But I could not shake the feeling that Erik would surprise us all, for he was far too clever to blindly walk into such a trap. The anticipation of some unforeseeable twist of fate that was to take place sometime in the near future made me feel as though I were blindfolded and tied to the stake, waiting for the firing squad to end my misery.

I could not bear to glance at Raoul's box or Box Five for fear that I would lose my composure completely. I pushed the morbid thoughts from my mind and sang about love and joy as though they were the only emotions I had ever felt. Music has always been the most relaxing art form to me, and as I sang my heart grew lighter and I began to relax.

To calm my mind, I focused on my surroundings, pretending as though this performance were no different than any other. The air onstage was warm and heavy, full of dust and the sweaty scent of the stagehands and dancers. Downstage, closer to the lights, it was warmer, and the perfumes and colognes of the audience permeated the air. This was familiar to me, this was the environment I had been raised it, and nowhere else could be more comforting.

I finished my aria and sat by the table, waiting for Monsieur Piangi to come and join me onstage for our duet.

Something was wrong. M. Piangi should have been onstage by now, there was no action, no singing from offstage, nothing but silence. I glanced up at Raoul's box, terrified, to see if he noticed what I had, but he betrayed no change of emotion, nothing to suggest that he noticed any difference in the way the performance was unfolding.

_Please, Papa and all the angels in heaven, let Monsieur Piangi come soon. I cannot stall for much longer, his presence will go noticed. If all were well, he would surely be here already, and I can think of no good reason why he is delayed. This cannot be happening!_

That was when the man who was to perform Don Juan's character stepped out from the darkness, and I saw that my fears were not unfounded. This man was not M. Piangi; this man was tall and muscular, but M. Piangi was short and rotund. And while M. Piangi had a face that was eternally ruddy, this man was pale as a cadaver, and Death seemed to ride on his very cape.

I knew this man.

"_Passarino, go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey"._


	3. Chapter 3

Only then did the full effect of the entire situation came crashing upon my mind. He had written the lyrics to _Point of No Return_ with the knowledge that I would have to confess my love and lust for him, the grotesque monster, in front of my helpless fiancé and an entire theatre of people. There would be no safe way to capture him with our bodies entwined as they had been blocked to do, and he would be free to parade me around the stage as he wished. If all else failed, Erik would have achieved a few brief moments where he could pretend that I really felt all that I was singing, even if it was the last song he heard on this earth. After all, his entire existence seemed to be based on shadows and lies, so if it was in shadows and lies that he finally found love, then for him that would be enough.

It was just as he sang, "_Now you are here with me, no second thoughts. You've decided." _

He was truly a genius, and I had walked right into his trap.

But I felt no resentment towards this man who had outwitted me and outmaneuvered my fiancé at every turn. I could only admire his brilliance, his passion, and what seemed to be his overwhelming desire to live, which I would never understand. Here was a man tortured and shunned by the world, and it was not so long ago when he learned that the woman he loved was engaged to marry another man. And yet, he chose to flaunt his triumph of will in the faces of those who could destroy him, rather than allow them to bring an end to his lifelong misery.

As I sang, a feeling overcame me that transcend my acting abilities. I truly began to believe what I sang, and there came to be such raw lust into every syllable that I sang that I could hardly believe the soprano's voice I heard was my own.

To this day I cannot explain what happened to me. It is possible that I finally came to resent the position Raoul put me in, and subconsciously wanted to make him feel a small bit of the terror and uncertainty that had plagued me for days. Or perhaps Erik had cast some spell upon me; after all, I had seen him perform greater magic tricks than swaying the heart of a weak-willed girl. It is also possible that I simply decided to take control of my fate, to try and defy the gods much in the same way my Angel had his whole life.

I knew that at least Erik noticed the change. While Erik had begun his performance with a hint of persuasion in his voice, as though the burden of seduction was still squarely on his shoulders, he now moved with the confidence of a man who was claiming what he knew to be rightly his.

I did not deny him this right. Rather, I encouraged it without regret; singing _Point of No Return _with my Angel of Music was more exhilarating than anything I had ever experienced before in my life. I pushed the stab of guilt to the back of my mind as I realized that this included Raoul's arrival at the Opera or his proposal a few months later. There was no comparison; Raoul was safe and comforting, but Erik was murderously dangerous and being this close to him meant flirting with Death itself. I knew that eternal captivity was on the line, and yet I felt like I was flying.

The song was almost over. I was blocked to exit the stage with Don Juan at the end of the song, presumably to consummate the lust we had just expressed for each other.

And that is when I reached, and crossed, the point of no return.

As with so much that happened that evening, I cannot tell you exactly why I did what I did. I know that this is a disappointing response, to be sure, and I apologize. But the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_ passed as if I were in a stupor; the motivations and logic that would drive my decisions anywhere else did not apply onstage, and most of what I did was based on a spur-of-the-moment choice that only heightened my sense of danger. Exhilaration had become my drug of choice.

To be honest, there had been a fire burning in my soul ever since the first night he took me below the Opera house. I could not quench it with the opera, or Raoul, and I needed to know if Erik was the key. I needed to hear his voice in my ear, to feel his breath on my bare shoulder, to feel his body again, and see if that was the cure to my disease.

And while I may not have realized it from the beginning, his performance in _Don Juan Triumphant _had provided me with the perfect alibi. I was an actress, he an actor, and he was scripted to seduce me. If I were to fall for such a seduction, then the better my performance, no?

And so I went upstage, and climbed the winding stairway to the platform above the set. I never flinched, I never paused for a moment in my singing, and I kept eye contact with Erik the whole time, willing him to follow. As if I needed to! He would have followed me anywhere, I know that now.

We approached each other tentatively at first, then with passionate confidence, like young lovers on their wedding night. And when he pulled me to him, he confirmed what I had suspected for months: that his presence near me made my mind go wild, but it also sated my most secret desires. It was all I could manage to finish the song, which suddenly seemed as irrelevant as the audience, the cast of the opera, and even…

"_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude. Say you want me with you here beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too! Christine- that's all I ask of you!"_

It was like being woken from a wonderful dream by a pail of ice water. I knew those words, and they came from the man I had pledged to marry, the man who had been my friend for years, the man who would do anything to protect me from danger, like the danger I was in right now.

I had been toying with the passion of a killer, of a man whose uncontrollable rage I had born the brunt of before. And for what? For my own fickle satisfaction, for a fleeting pleasure that had only served to break the heart of my intended husband.

I stole a glance at his box, and saw a man devastated by betrayal. I knew what I had to do- it is what I had come here to do, and the only way I could prove to Raoul that I still loved him. And by doing it, I would destroy the man who loved me more than life itself.

So I did what must: I ripped the mask from Erik's face. I exposed his monstrosity to everyone who was present. And I hated myself for it. I have never before seen a human's face with the emotion that he displayed, and I would only see it once again in my lifetime. It was the look of a man who dreamt of Heaven, only to wake up in Hell.

I could not speak, but I wanted to tell him I was sorry, that I was too weak, that I valued honor and safety over the life and love he could offer me. I prayed he would read this in my eyes, but if he did he gave no indication other than grief beyond what any human should bear.

But I knew Erik, I knew that there would not be much time before his grief turned to anger. He was a man that the world continually beat to the ground, and one does not endure what he has endured without giving up entirely or returning the favor.

I realized, too late again, that I had awoken the monster.


	4. Chapter 4

Sooo, another disclaimer- I do not have any rights to Gluck's opera "Orpheus and Eurydice", or anything related to it.

Also- I'm not really sure where I'm wanting to go with the story from here. I think my problem comes from the fact that I, like Christine, am equally in love with Raoul and the Phantom, but for different reasons. I am considering having Christine stay with Erik, or having the story end pretty much the way the movie ends, but continuing on a bit after they leave the Opera House. Any suggestions or input would be greatly appreciated :)

* * *

When we were thirteen years old, Meg and I were cast as nymphs in a production of _Orphee et Eurydice_ at the Opera House. This was our first stage performance, and when I learned that I had been accepted into the production I was as happy as a child could be. Madame Giry could hardly persuade me to be still long enough so that I could practice the choreography, and all Meg and I could talk about was how this was going to be our breakthrough performance.

Everything went very well with rehearsals, until about a week before opening night.

All of the other girls in the dormitory were sound asleep, including Madame Giry, who had been so exhausted from the day's rehearsals that she was the first to pass into slumber. I, on the other hand, could not sleep. I had just awoken from a terrible nightmare, in which my father was still alive, but refused to come to see the opera's opening night because he didn't want to be embarrassed by my performance. I woke to the sound of my own sobbing, and I lay clutching my pillow in the unsympathetic darkness until I couldn't stand the silence anymore.

So I snuck out of the dormitory and down the long hallways to the back of the stage. The wood flooring was icy beneath my bare feet, and I silently cursed myself for not having thought to bring my slippers or shawl, but my nightmare was far too raw for me to return so soon to the sight of its occurrence. So I pressed on until I saw the stacked boxes of props that were always kept just backstage.

This was where I always felt the most at home, this is where I went to think and be alone when it seemed that the world was pushing in on me. So I curled up on one of the shorter crates, and let my thoughts wander where they wished.

I imagined myself the heroine of the story, the lovely soprano who doubted the love of a man who would descent into the Underworld to win her soul, and through her doubt doomed herself forever. I knew nothing of such a type of love, but it all sounded very romantic, and I longed to know what it felt like. Surely, though, since I was too young for suitors, I could at least pretend, right? I had heard the new soprano, La Carlotta, sing the role enough that I could imitate her well enough to please my imaginary audience.

It was absurd, but I suddenly had to know what it felt like to stand downstage, facing the audience, and have all eyes on you. So I pulled back the heavy curtain, and crossed onto the magical half of stage: the half where the rest of the world dissolves and you become whoever you want to be.

I had no Orpheus to lead me into my duet, so I began abruptly:

_Is it you? Am I deceived? Am I dreaming or awake? Or delirious? _

I stepped down to the very edge of the stage, and reached out my hand like I had seen La Carlotta do, as though my love were just beyond my fingertips. I opened my mouth and inhaled to sing my next line.

_Beloved wife, I am Orpheus- _

That is when everything started moving very slowly, and yet in the blink of an eye. The shock from having heard the voice of my Angel continue the duet when I had assumed I was alone threw me off-balance, and my already precarious location at the edge of the stage. As I fell forward my foot must have caught between two of the lamps at the edge of the stage, and my leg twisted in a direction that was contrary to the direction that the rest of my body wanted to travel. The subsequent landing in the orchestra pit was much more painful than it should have been, and I immediately knew my leg was injured badly enough that I would not be performing in the opera the next week.

Since you are surely wondering what the significance of this event is, and I will tell you. Sometimes, in moments of distress, it is difficult to know quite what is happening to you. It is as if God places a protective angel around your mind, to keep you from unduly suffering.

When I toppled off the stage and broke my leg, I did not know what was happening until it had already happened. Likewise, I could not say for certain what happened in those crucial few moments after I removed Erik's mask onstage. I remember the clash of the chandelier as it ripped through the ceiling, I remember the floor vanishing beneath me, and I remember the horrible sensation of falling through the air onto a soft padding that was placed beneath the stage. Somehow this all is connected to the sound of screaming and the heat of a blazing fire, but those memories are more like accessories to the primary recollection of being kidnapped, and cannot be placed in any specific time frame.

Once Erik had regained his footing, he pulled me to my feet as well, and we ran down the labyrinthine corridors that had been carved beneath the Opera House. I could not help but think of Eurydice, and how much more I understood her despair now than three years ago. Was I being dragged by the Fates to spend an eternity in Hades? Would I never see my beautiful Orpheus again? These thoughts, racing through my mind with a desperate urgency, brought me to tears.

But another thought was growing treacherously in my mind, a thought that I was terrified to acknowledge because I was not prepared to accept it.

Was it possible that I was being rescued, that I was being pulled from a nightmarish future by my adoring musician, to spend the rest of my life with the man who went through Hell for me?


End file.
